I stood still, my heart beating quickly; then I turned away, feeling as if I had taken an unbidden glance into the heart of a stranger. In that moment came the realization that there was another claim on my baby as tender and as strong as my own, and with a throb of remorse my heart turned toward my husband with a strange new feeling.
Among the strong influences in Hanano’s life were the frequent calls and unfailing kindness of our good friend Mrs. Wilson. She seldom came that she did not bring flowers for Mother, and on Easter and family anniversaries our parlours were bowers of bloom from her generous conservatory.
One day, when Hanano was about a year old, she was sitting on Mother’s lap by the window when she saw the familiar carriage coming up the driveway. It stopped and Mrs. Wilson stepped out. Glancing up and seeing the baby she waved a white-gloved hand and smiled. The sun was shining on her stately figure in its gown of soft heliotrope shade, with flowers in her arms.
“Oh, oh!” cried the baby, joyfully clapping her hands. “Pretty Flower Lady! Pretty Flower Lady!”
Thus was she christened in the baby’s heart, and “Flower Lady” she has been to us all ever since. May the many blossoms which her generous hands have scattered far and wide bloom anew for her in all their symbolism of happiness and peace when she reaches the beautiful gardens across the river.
From the time when Hanano first recognized her father as a separate individual, he brought her toys, and she was no sooner toddling about and beginning to prattle than he spent most his leisure time in playing with her, carrying her about or even taking her to call on the neighbours.
One Sunday afternoon just after Matsuo had started off somewhere with her, Mother said: “I have never known a more devoted father than Matsuo. Are all Japanese men as unselfish with their children?”
“Why, I—don’t—know,” I replied slowly. “Aren’t American men fond of their children?”
“Oh, yes,” she answered quickly, “but Matsuo comes home early every evening to play with Hanano, and the other day he closed his store for the entire afternoon just to take her to the zoo.”
My mind went back to my father—and Mr. Toda—and other fathers; and suddenly I saw Japanese men in a new light. “They have no chance!” I thought, a little bitterly. “An American man can show his feelings without shame, but convention chains a Japanese man. It pulls a mask over his face, closes his lips, and numbs his actions. However a husband many feel toward his wife, he cannot in public show her affection, or even respect; nor does she wish him to. It is not good form. The only time a man of dignity dares betray his heart is when he is with a little child—either his own or another’s. Then he has the only outlet that etiquette allows; and even then he must guide his actions by rule. A father becomes his little son’s comrade. He wrestles with him, races with him, and acts with him scenes of samurai daring, but he loves his little daughter with a great tenderness and accepts her gentle caresses with a heart hunger that is such pathos it is tragedy.”
Matsuo was more demonstrative to me than would have been polite had we been living in Japan, but we both respected formality, and it was years before I realized how deep were his feelings for his family.
After that remark of Mother’s and the thoughts that it aroused I delayed Hanano’s bedtime, and she had many a romp with her father after the hour when children are supposed to be asleep. One moonlight evening I came down and found them running around the lawn, chasing each other and dodging this way and that, while Mother sat on the porch laughing and applauding. They were playing, “Shadow catch Shadow.”
“I used to play that on moonlight nights when I was a little girl,” I said.
“Why, is there a moon in Japan?” asked Hanano in great surprise.
“This very same one,” her father replied. “Wherever you go, all your life, you will see it above you in the sky.”
“Then it walks with me,” said Hanano with satisfaction, “and when I go to Japan, God can see my Japanese grandma.”
Matsuo and I glanced at each other, a little puzzled. Hanano had always associated the Man in the Moon with the face of God, but I did not know until afterward that she had heard a lady who was calling on Mother that afternoon express regret that “beautiful Japan is a country without God.”
Hanano’s odd idea was somewhat startling, but it was a pleasant one to her and I did not correct it. “She will learn soon enough in this practical country,” I thought with a sigh. In Japan children are saved many a puzzling heartache, for most of our people retain sympathy for childish illusions even to old age; thus poetic fancies are less apt to be too suddenly shattered. Daily life over there is full of mystic thought. To the masses of people, nothing in the active life about us is more real than the unseen forces which people the earth and air; and no day passes that does not bring to almost everyone some suggestion of the presence of kindly spirits. Most of the gods
